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Tricia,Some comments:1) When you have a case name, and you put the words “et al.” after the first plaintiff’s name or first defendant’s name, there must be a comma after the first plaintiff’s name or first defendant’s name. I have seen this grammatical error repeated, so I do not think this mistake was inadvertent. Now, you know the rule, so please do not repeat the same mistake.2) Vartan Gregorian, of Goldman, Silverman & Hastings, is not in the arbitration. He represents Gorog Nasroobian, the co-defendant who is not part of the arbitration, and who was expressly excluded from the arbitration by his own choice and then the subsequent court order. Thus, instead, the letter should have been addressed to only Patrick Silverberg and Herbert Pinkney, the two co-counsel for the primary defendant, Oleg Krikorian. Krikorian is indeed part of the court-ordered arbitration. But Patrick Silverberg was not even listed in your original letter. Those are the two relevant co-counsel: Patrick Silverberg and Herbert Pinkney. Get familiar with their names.3) There should be two spaces between a period at the end of a sentence and the first word to begin the next sentence. In this letter, you consistently only put one space. I have seen recent briefs where you have interchangeably used one space and two spaces. Sometimes three spaces. I have had to make repeated changes in this letter and those recent briefs as a result. This is unacceptable. Two spaces. That’s it. You are now a senior associate. The standards set for you are higher than before. I hope and expect you will meet them.

Respectfully,

Filbert

She needed money. She had a kid, a 14 year old, the son of some guy from when she was 17. The guy had owned a car. That was what had qualified him for fatherhood. He could drive up a block away from the group home and take her to movies and parties. She squatted on top of him in the back seat; he hadn’t even moved the combination snow brush and ice scraper with the Peak™ antifreeze logo on it, a nice picture of mountains. Afterwards there was a mirror imprint of the mountains on her shin. Men with absolutely nothing happening in their lives and no futures just cum in girls. I mean, why not.

As soon as I took her upstairs, she immediately starting disrobing. I love that. She removed her thong before she removed her bra. I like that, too.DFK, tongue bath all over, right into BBBJ, right into 69, more DATY, and then full service without condom. She at first wanted to use a jimmy, but I then convinced her that of course I would pull out and that since both of us were clean, it was okay, right? Yes. Regular cowgirl, then my usual sequence of lotus, missionary, and piledriver. This time, however, I actually did pull out. [Note: I did not do this to be a nice guy, but rather, to lay the foundation for future non-condom sex visits. Trust is a critical element here.]I was going to spooge on her tits while she was lying prone, but she made some grunting noises and reached for my dick. So I already knew she wanted me to stick my cock in her mouth as I came. So I did. And I came. She swallowed most of my cum, but some spilled out over her lips. To her credit, she tried to guzzle it all down, but it was getting messy, so I gave her some Kleenex.

I stuck my finger in her ass during 69, and her muscles and body didn’t flinch at all. Plus, she didn’t even try to remove my finger. That sounds to me like an invitation for more.

Respectfully,

Filbert

The kid cost money and the guy who had owned the 1984 Mercury Topaz in metallic teal had not been heard from; there was a falling out over a vicodin and she had aged out of the foster care system and went on to live with some counterculture types under a freeway piling. She could have found him maybe, but it would have been like one of those movies where a dog and cat have to get across the entire North American land mass to return to their suburban home; this was before google. Plus, fuck him. The kid was 14 now and expensive; he needed his own room, schoolbooks, acne medicine. He had been through a lot but she would be damned if he was going to go through life ugly. There was a free school lunch provided though; a letter had assured her that it used organic produce and whole grains whenever possible and had a very low ratio of harmful saturated fats such as palm oil. They joked that he would get to the cash register and be told his meal was $4.99; he would say “this is what I’m prepared to offer you,” slowly scrawl out a huge “0” on paper, and slide it back to the lunch lady, smirking. He had her sense of humor.

September 23, 2012

from: Filbert B. Kim (fkim@goldbergkimllc.com)to: astrid666@gmail.com

Astrid:

You want to meet up?

Respectfully,

Filbert

His car pulled up in front of her house. It was a BMW “M” series. He was proud of the car. What it had accomplished at the Nurburgring. He had moved on from the gigantic law firm that had employed him, which had sixteen names on top of the letterhead. He had moved on when an HR professional in the company had complained to management that he was harassing her. In fact they’d been fucking for months. He’d helped her get the job. She was Mexican, and those big law firms need Mexicans in HR and other supporting positions to keep in line with federal law and have someone to photograph for the recruiting brochure. He was doing the firm a favor and not her, but he took his pay nonetheless. She’d had to have an abortion when he had to imagine cumming in her and making her pregnant against her will, which he had to do in order to cum, just a second too long to remember that he better not cum in her and make her pregnant against her will. It was devastating to her at 27. Her first pregnancy. She called him crying and he told her take care of it; he was still married. When you need that kind of pussy in your life, stick with veterans. The newbies will make it a fucking federal case every time.

He had moved on with a severance package that could buy you a nice house in any second tier city in the United States and started his own firm with a client he poached from his old job. Old Persian guy. A “real estate magnate,” whatever that means, and crooked enough so he was constantly getting sued. Big money. Filbert Kim could have bought any car he wanted; it didn’t have to be the new BMW “M” series in midnight blue with pearl interior. But he respected the car’s racing heritage.

She was drinking Andre® Extra Dry sparkling domestic wine the porch. CVS had had a sale. The kid was asleep. It was late. He didn’t know what to say, but he’d told her he was bringing a bag of coke. He had in fact bumped up on his way over, which was a stupid and undisciplined move. You are on your way to have guaranteed sex with a new piece of pussy and you do the only thing that makes it so you can’t get hard. But ask a dog not to eat its own puke. They talked a little, as much as you can when you have a bag of cocaine waiting. Enough to see that he was soft. Not the person who had boasted about abusing sex slaves and sexually extorting a desperate secretary in need of work. In a novel he would have been described as “so ordinary, he was invisible,” like a sad gray John LeCarré spy. He moonlighted as a “cheerful Asian man” model for a stock photo agency. You can see posters of his face beaming with a Bennetton-esque diverse troupe of business colleagues in front of glowing revenue projections by the walkways of at least three major airports. The kind of smile you only wear when you’ve received information solutions for the small to mid sized business. When he took his shirt off, he appeared to be made out of pastry.

Astrid will suck your dick for as long as it takes to get hard when you are flaccid from cocaine. Girls who do this, you are saints, all of you. Four hours in this case. He mounted her. A big shaky puff pastry with the weight of a garbage bag full of sand, whose heart was rattling like a baby bird when you pick it up. Sweating. Fuck me you little white bitch. I’m gonna cum in you you little white bitch. I’m gonna cum in that white pussy. Fucking whore. She licked his nipples, as requested. Tell me you love me. I love you. He came.

It was a Tuesday. It was 6 AM. He was supposed to go to work, but it’s good to be the boss. He slept over. She made pancakes. Astrid will make the fuck out of some pancakes. She home cans various fruits into syrups and preserves. Not that IHOP shit where a little more red number five makes it “loganberry, ” either. She watched him eat. It seemed like the pancakes required no transmutation to become part of his body; he was made of pancake. But she’d seen far worse, that week even.

He had cocaine. He had money. He might treat her like shit, which is to say he might treat her like her real concept of herself. What all women want. Although aside from the race-baiting he’d seemed soft so far. It was good on paper. They agreed that they would see each other again.

He went into the office smelling like stale pussy and Andre® Extra Dry sparkling wine; no one could say shit. Sat down at his top of the line Macintosh and checked on his fantasy football leagues for a minute before acknowledging his inbox. His ex wife wanted money. His mother in law wanted money. His colleague wanted him to pore over dull and esoteric briefings about Real Estate law for the one millionth time; the last time he’d tried the letters became hieroglyphic ants and danced on the page. His underlings could barely write a sentence and everything they handled only created more work. People were nice to him because he paid them and shrews when they weren’t getting enough money. Every relationship was nothing but the other person begging and demanding. At night he went home to his condo alone and thought about his dog. The wife had custody. His fluffy little face beamed out of a framed portrait next to the TV and stuck knitting needles in his heart. He needed to feel something else. Anything.

67 Responses to “Passions: A Love Story, Part Two”

Palm oil, coconut oil, and other saturated fats haven’t been considered unhealthy for a decade. On the contrary, polyunsaturated vegetable oil is now known to be a cause of cardiovascular disease and cancer.

The funniest part of this story is where Filbert still believes the antiquated notion that there should be two spaces after a period. That only applied in the dark ages of typewriter use, where fonts were monospaced (all one size). When typing on a computer, two spaces are no longer necessary due to computer fonts being proportional. The Chicago Manual of Style, The AP Style Book, and the MLA Handbook all agreed to the change years and years ago.

It was only one space when I finished grad school at Berkeley in 2008. Haven’t had to check back each year since my husband’s job pays well enough for me to be a stay-at-home mommy (thank you, HBO!) and also pay off my heinous, albeit unused, student loans! Woohoo!

What? Are comments moderated now? Why do you need to do that, DT? Your writing is far superior to anything anyone on here can say. Plus, you won’t be moderating NYT reviews, will you? So get used to it.

Great post! I like the structure, how the story is interspersed with the letters giving us some insight into R. Kim’s character. I just spent fifteen minutes looking up all those escort abbreviations.

one critique:

– You shoulda kept the fictional names culturally homogeneous, you know what I mean? For example, no way in hell a Jew couple is giving their kid an Irish Catholic sounding name like Patrick. Ira Silverberg, Aaron Silverberg, fuck, go full oldschool Jew and name him Hymie or some shit – It makes it sound more realistic. And a Korean named Filbert? I don’t know any Koreans to give a suggestion – Fong, Wong, I don’t fucking know, but I doubt many of them are named Filbert. A lot of big name writer’s do that and it pisses me off for some reason; they always give their characters some outlandish names.

I have a lot of Filipino friends with old fashioned, “oddball” names…Felix, Francis, Griselda, Claudine. Speaking of names, is the pseudonym “Astrid” a nod to “a White Oleander? (The whole trouble youth/foster home connection)

You know, I do know one Korean named Dan, but that could be the Americanized version of Dong, or Daewong or something. Maybe they want so bad to assimilate that they go out of their way to pick the Whitest, WASPiest sounding names they can.

Although, I don’t see why they would feel the need to do that in LA. You want to assimilate in LA, you name your kid Pedro or Jose.

Pffffbaaaasssssss, you are one ignorant motherfucker. They have American names because they are American. Your parents didn’t name you Yury or Hans or Buttfuck or whatever buttshit old country name would be more appropriate for you, did they?

Ahaa, Is that you, Filbert? You’re missing my point, Filbert, those aren’t “American” names; American names are practically nonexistant, unless you want to name your kid Running Bear and spell it with the fucking Algonquin alphabet.

My parents gave me an Americanized version of an old world name. I’ll give you an example: my grandfather’s birth name was Donato, but everyone called him Danny. Now my cousin is named after him. And there’s still plenty of people in my family and where I grew up that have old world names like Salvatore, Mario, Dominic, etc.

You’ll find the same trend with any ethnic group in America; you go to a Polish neighborhood you’ll see a lot of Stanleys(Stanislaw) and Walters(Waclaw) and Francis'(Franciszek)

Go to an Irish neighborhood and you’ll see a lot of Brendans and Colins and Kevins and Patricks and Seans, etc.

Jews tend to give their kids Americanized versions of biblical names like Aaron, Eve, Jacob, Joshua, David, etc. which, a lot of them are also hebrew names.

But my theory is that since Asian names aren’t translatable, and with them being fresh off the boat, they just go straight for what they *think* are the most inconspicous “American” sounding names so their kids won’t stick out, not realizing that they’re giving their kids these antiquated WASP names that you won’t see anywhere except for the fucking Skull and Bones membership roster of 1913.

A little defensive, aren’t we? No one goes by American Indian names. American names have become synonymous with old British names because that’s where this country originates from socially and politically. There’s nothing wrong or uniqute about Jennifer Lopez being named Jennifer instead of Esmerelda, just as there is nothing wrong with the comedian George Lopez being named George instead of Pancho. Same goes for “Michael Jordan” or “Earvin Johnson” instead of Kunta Kinte or Mogadishu Johnson. Everyone over time does the Anglicizing of names, not just one group. Besides, could you ever even pronounce Zhaoliou Xiuwei correctly?

You never know. It happens every day. I do have a few things in my favor: he’s 15 years older than I am, I have petite genes (half Vietnamese, half French), family is extremely important to him and I’m the mother of his only kids. He still might dump me, maybe we’ll grow apart, maybe I’ll gain weight in menopause and no longer be 110 lbs and attractive to him, maybe I will get tired of HIM! I’ll be ok, I have a Bachelor’s in Molecular Biology and a Master’s in Special Education, so I can support myself (along with child support!) if need be. I don’t understand the venom towards me, I think I’ve been pretty neutral in my comments…I don’t intend for them to be mean spirited. Tongue in cheek, if anything. But c’est la vie!

You know how you know that DT is a really good writer? It is not the attention to detail, though that is a strength. It is not the original subject matter, though that is also a strength. It is not even his usual Quentin Tarantino on coke and boner pills style, though that is also a strength.

It is the seamless transition between multiple voices in his story. He goes from his usual smart-aleck, distended left testicled, omnipresent 3rd person narrator to the mind of Filbert via those letters without skipping a beat. Filbert has a completely different voice than DT, and yet DT manages to step into the shoes of a bored, disaffected Korean lawyer as smoothly as possible. And even then, Filbert has a disjointed, split personality, jumping between being the office grammar police to an eager contributor to The Erotic Review within his own self. So DT has to jump between not two, but THREE personalities.

But he gets it done easily. It is almost as if there is a Filbert out there who wrote these letters.

Kudos to DT for also knowing his rules of writing elements and style, as well as researching the correct acronyms for actual pay-for-play terms. That level of accuracy lends believability to the story.

Whatever. If I wrote the same review someone still be on my ass about something. Just like the, “i see, you went to college.” You give someone attention, they’d be stupid not to take it. No one asked any of you to comment on comments but if you do, I speak for myself, I’m going to take it as an opportunity to talk about myself. And I’m not morbidly obese. I just have a weird camera…Also, stop being so jealous of DT. He’s an awesome writer and all you have to contribute are comments. Look at you, so fulfilled in life. You’re no better.

Obvious? 40+ comments in, and B. Cohen is the only one to make the observation about the distinct, separate voices that set DT apart from other bloggers. Not so obvious, or at least, other people (like you) are too dumb to articulate it.

Stop being so jealous that one of the Cohenim wrote a better comment than you.

You know why it’s a decent comment? Because it’s one of the few that actually talks about the post. We’ve gotten so used to DT’s writing being great that we’ve just grown accustomed to it, like it’s nothing worthy of praise though his posts are consistently great and that’s why we keep coming back, whether it’s needy fat chicks or unfulfilled guys looking for a good trolling.

We forget that the writing is why we actually come back and if it is obvious, if it’s obvious that this is a really awesome bit of writing, that shouldn’t be an excuse not to let DT know he is appreciated. We write stupid comments and forget that this guy is a really good writer, and writers, anyone who does a good job really, should be told once in a while that what they do is pretty fantastic. It’s a good thing someone who has a good grasp of the language, who obviously knows what he thinks makes good writing, is able to post a comment so college-y. “You’re good in bed,” is not as exciting to hear as, “I really liked that thing you did with your hips, it was amazing and you’re really strong.”

It is obvious this guy is a good writer, but that doesn’t mean he shouldn’t be told once in a while.

Plus, B. Cohen’s comment is so poorly constructed and full of cheap stylistic cliches, it’s insulting to my sense of beauty. I imagine that’s how sophomores in college write, deeming themselves “the next great American author”. I mean, look at the opening line: “You know how you know that DT is a really good writer?” Who the fuck cares what you think, B. Cohen? Who are you to tell us that? If you’re talking to DT, tell him, not me. And then he dares to repeat the structure of “it is not XYZ, though that’s a strength” ad nauseum. He finally tells us (thank god, I thought that vomit-inducing paragraph would never end), “It is the seamless transition between multiple voices in his story”. Really? Does he even… do you people realize that that’s how life is narrated in people’s heads, anyway? How can someone this… unsophisticated even dare “critique” (“critique”, my ass) DT’s writing?

Neither one seems entirely sane, do they? Astrid will fuck anyone. Part one talks about that. Not sure if she’s a loser so much as an opportunist slut bag, and Filbert’s just a moron with money. I’d maintain that he’s certainly the bigger loser.

What’s great about the opportunistic slutbag comment is that it puts blame on a woman for the weakness of men. It’s like fatties are wrong for having a lack of self control and they can’t blame food or the food industry but men who need sex as bad as Filbert, it’s Astrid’s fault.

Well, not that I’m an expert (I am), but with the previous descriptions of this Astrid character- growing up in foster care, rape and stuff, teen pregnancy, extremely promiscuous behavior, desire for rough sex, I don’t think “loser” is the right word for it. Sure, she fucked the guy, but as Anon #2 said, she fucked all guys. The tone of her character is more… what’s the right word? I’m at a loss. White trash, maybe?